(The youngest Tanner, Michelle, is a sophomore in high school and is taking a creative writing class. Her latest assignment was to create a blog. Michelle’s blog’s theme is being the youngest of three girls. This is her most recent post. Oh, and I did have permission to publish!)
She’s the one in red
By Michelle Tanner
Recently, I got my driver’s license. You may be asking yourself, “Michelle. What does this have to do with being the youngest child or growing up in a weird family?” My answer to you is A LOT.
Up to November 27th, 2018, I was the queen of the carpool system. I was constantly asking my dad or sisters to drop me off at the movie theater, library, etc. I often received an eye-roll in return. While I was thankful for the ride, I will admit, it was sometimes embarrassing.
Last year at my school dance, my friends and I got ready at my house, and our dates came over after we primped ourselves. The before is always awkward. Taking pictures with a boy from your middle school that you rarely talk to throughout the year is not the ideal situation… Anyway, after pictures, we all piled into one car with my dad as our chauffeur. I had faced the fact that this was the only way to get to the dance. I’m sure you can picture my dad, like any other father, playing his old tunes and asking questions to fill the silence. It’s such a relief to know that this year I will be able to avoid this situation.
For the readers who don’t know how a driver’s permit works, you have to practice driving for a year and log sixty hours of driving with your parent. That meant that every trip to the grocery store was another stressful experience filled with corrections from my worried dad. One day, I drove my sisters and dad home from a movie. I gracefully pulled out of the parking spot, put the car in drive, and began to take off. I planned to slow down so that I could turn out of the parking lot, but instead I mistook the gas pedal for the brake pedal and jerked forward. I quickly corrected myself. Everyone began to yell at me! In my defense it was the early stages of my driving career. I was mortified, and my sisters are still scared to get in the car with me.
It was unbelievable to me that my sisters could be so judgmental. They were in the same place I was just a few years ago! One of my favorite stories is about a fifteen-year-old, too cool for school DJ Tanner, my oldest sister. After a long, treacherous trip to Fayetteville, North Carolina, to visit my grandparents (when I say long and treacherous, I mean an hour long drive with a new driver on the highway), my dad corrected how DJ was holding the steering wheel. I believe the conversation went something like this…
Dad: “DJ, you’re supposed to hold the steering wheel at 9 and 3 o’clock! Why are your elbows slouching?”
DJ: “DAD! I HAVE BEEN DRIVING A WHOLE HOUR! MY ARMS ARE TIRED! GIVE ME A BREAK!”
How could she possibly make fun of my little mess up?
Now that I have my license, life is good. I have all of the freedom and responsibility in the world—I take that back. Don’t get me wrong, the freedom is great, but the responsibility is different. I have an issue with getting gas. My biggest fear is that I’ll put the wrong type of gas in my car, and it will explode. The first time I got gas, I called my sister, Stephanie, to have her lead me through the process step-by-step. I got my gas, and all was good.
All was good, until yesterday, when my “low fuel” light came on. I decided I had to face my fear, so I went to the nearest gas station prepared to leave with no worry of breaking down on the side of the road. I pulled up to the Shell gas station down the street and stopped at the closest hose to find out that my gas tank was on the other side of the car. “No problem!” I thought to myself as I pulled around to the next open spot. I pulled around, and I even shooed the friendly man working there sweeping and got an annoyed look. I felt bad, but I just knew I had to get gas no matter what. I got out of the car going over the steps in my head, “First, put in my card, then type in my 5-digit zip code…”
Turns out, I parked on the wrong side again. At that point the other gas hoses were taken and there was no more room for me to make a 7-point turn especially with my mediocre driving skills. I left the gas station defeated, but in order to get home, I would have had to make a U-turn on a busy street. There was no way I was doing something that risky, so I went through the shopping center next door where I struggled to figure out a 3 way stop with unspecified rules. I received a few glares and nearly got honked at. I was finally on my way home. But as I drove, the orange “low-fuel” light mocked me.
I turned my car around and went back to the same gas station. I drove in, parked on the right side, and I got my gas! Victory was mine, despite a concerned look from the not so friendly gas station man that recognized me from earlier. At that point I didn’t care about the glares and stares because I knew that I wouldn’t have to get gas for at least another two to three weeks.
Today as I drove my car to pick up a friend, I looked at my gas meter all the way up to the top. I felt accomplished. I felt like an adult with real responsibility that I could handle on my own. It’s funny how such a little thing made me forget I was the baby of the family for a split second.
